, you shall tell me what is on your heart."

The Green Confessional

For a long time the soldier remained silent. His head was bowed. His
shoulders drooped. His hands trembled between his knees. He was
wrestling with himself.

"No," he cried, at last, "I cannot, I dare not tell you. Unless,
perhaps"--his voice faltered--"you could receive it under the seal of
confession? But no. How could you do that? Here in the green woods? In
the open air, beside a spring? Here is no confessional."

"Why not?" asked Father Courcy. "It is a good place, a holy place.
Heaven is over our heads and very near. I will receive your confession
here."

The soldier knelt among the flowers. The priest pronounced the sacred
words. The soldier began his confession:

"I, Pierre Duval, a great sinner, confess my fault, my most grievous
fault, and pray for pardon." He stopped for a moment and then
continued, "But first I must tell you, Father, just who I am and where
I come from and what brings me here."

"Go on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am waiting to hear. Be
simple and very frank."

"Well, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in the pleasant country
of the Barrois not far from Bar-sur-Aube. My faith, but that is a
pretty land, full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm there is
one of the prettiest and one of the best, though it is small. It was
hard to leave it when the call to the colors came, two years ago. But I
was glad to go. My heart was high and strong for France. I was in the
Nth Infantry. We were in the center division under General Foch at the
battle of the Marne. _Fichtre_! but that was fierce fighting! And what
a general! He did not know how to spell 'defeat.' He wrote it'
victory.' Four times we went across that cursed Marsh of Saint-Gond.
The dried mud was trampled full of dead bodies. The trickling streams
of water ran red. Four times we were thrown back by the Boches. You
would have thought that was enough. But the general did not think so.
We went over again on the fifth day, and that time we stayed. The
Germans could not stand against us. They broke and ran. The roads where
we chased them were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village we
caught three officers and a dozen men dead drunk. _Bigre!_ what a fine
joke!"

Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his recital.
His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy bent forward
with shining eyes.

"Continue," he